


About Parting

by technicallymilkshakes



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Animal Death, Drinking & Talking, Mentions of Cancer, Missed Connections, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-21 16:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallymilkshakes/pseuds/technicallymilkshakes
Summary: Out of all the people at the park, you're the only one to comfort the guy crying under the tree. You learn that every story has its end, but maybe fate has more to write for this one.





	About Parting

I met this guy a while back. He was crying by this tree in the park right across from my building. And people, they just kept walking past him, intentionally avoiding him. Because crying makes people uncomfortable, right? It made me uncomfortable. I’m just out here for some fresh air and a drink and this guy’s right next to the bicycle lane bawling his eyes out. He’s kneeling next to this tree, and he’s crying so hard that his body curls in on itself and I can hear him, all the way on the other side of traffic, take in these huge fucking gasps of air between every expulsion of emotion.

My body kind of tensed itself up and I looked around, anticipating sirens that never came. But all I saw were the joggers that kept jogging, averting their eyes, the couples who spread their blankets far away, and these young kids, maybe high schoolers, who hurried to pass him before they bunched up, all whispering and laughing as they snuck glances back at him. And all the while he just kept crying with no obvious reason in sight.

You know what, strike that. What a stupid fucking assumption. I apologize. Since when was the heart an obvious thing? You should feel entitled to cry whenever the fuck you want over whatever goddamn thing hurts you, even if some bonehead like me doesn’t get it.

But this guy, he just jerked on my heart. He wasn’t pitiful or anything. He was so  _honest_ to himself, so engaged in his sadness and all these other people are walking by pretending like they don’t see him. It all seemed so disrespectful. Look, I get it; sometimes you might think you’ll make it worse if you butt in and it’ll get all awkward, especially with a stranger. But I gotta say it.  _You’re_  afraid of feeling awkward? They’re the ones crying in public and having people ask if they’re alright.

Apparently weeping your heart out isn’t good enough evidence for some people.

But even still, knowing that someone  _sees_ you, it makes a difference. You feel as if someone armed with a spoon has come along to help you eat this Sadness Sundae and it’s one of the few times you’re happy to share. Or at least, it’s like that for me. I hate sharing.

So I went to the convenience store, which was the entire reason I had ventured out in the first place, picked up some stuff, and then headed across the street, dodging joggers, couples, and annoying children all along the way, to the guy crying by the tree.

At this point, I nearly walked away and made a hypocrite out of myself. It was really awkward at first, not gonna lie. I’m just standing there right behind him and he’s sobbing his eyes out, and there are all these people on bikes riding past. I can feel them looking at me and I can just imagine they’re thinking “Damn, what’d you  _do_  to him?”

I’m innocent, I swear!

But anyways, I was just standing there behind him with my bag and do you know how hard it is to find the right timing to interrupt someone when they’re crying?

I somehow managed to break through and I walked over and squatted next to him, plopping my little plastic convenience store bag down on the ground in front of me. He just looks over at me, tears still running down his face, his mouth drawn open with a little  _hic_.

He looked young, but not as young as I thought from the back. Apart from the red eyes and tears and stuff, he looked alright. I also had an odd urge to tell him that ripped jeans should not be a thing anymore, but it actually looked kind of good on him so I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the right time for that discussion anyways. And maybe I also changed my mind about ripped jeans. Don’t judge.

To deflect all the questions I could see in his eyes (which probably went something along the lines of “What the fuck?”, “Who the hell is this person and what do they think they’re doing?”, and an extra helping of “While I’m crying, really?”), I rifled in my bag and pulled out my booty.

“I don’t know if you drink or are underage or whatever but I thought you could use this.”

I set a beer can in front of him and took the other one out for myself.

“You don’t have to tell me why you’re crying or anything. I just really wanted a drink and thought you could use some company. I’ll be gone after this drink anyways if I make you uncomfortable.”

He was still just kind of staring at me, I could tell even though I wasn’t looking at him, so I just opened my own beer can and took a deep gulp.

“Man, that’s refreshing.” And it really was, if still very awkward. The park looked right out over the river. I remember thinking that this particular spot would be great for a picnic, as if I went picnicking all the time. It was getting on towards sunset and the day was finally beginning to cool down. The ground was still warm, though, which was nice. It kept my butt nice and toasty because sitting on the cold ground, especially cold,  _wet_  ground, is the worst. But the temperature was perfect, and the boats on the river with all their lights were perfect, and the leaves in the tree rustling were perfect and I could even think the sniffles to my right were perfect if I was so inclined.

It was during my second swig that I heard the  _pop!_  and fizz of the can being opened next to me. I turned to watch him. He was chugging his drink all the way to the end, and when he finished, he ended on that sound that the models always use in the commercials when they finish their drink and feel invigorated. “Ahhh!” Something like that. It doesn’t work so well from me to you, but you get the picture. And then he set his empty can down and scrubbed his face with his hands.

It was quiet for a little longer. I plucked some grass and then got up and threw it in the river to see if the current would carry it away. Except that grass is really hard to throw so none of it even landed in the water.

“Actually, one of my dogs died recently.” I turned back to look at him and he was staring straight out at the water. He was biting his lip and his hands were in fists and even I could tell that he was doing his damnedest not to cry.

 _Oh, fuck,_  I thought.  _I made a mistake._

 _I knew I should’ve bought those tissues._   _I take back what I thought about the ground. Sad animal stories are the absolute worst._   

I sat back down next to him after brushing off the grass confetti, took another sip of my beer, and settled myself in.

“One day,” he started and his voice cracked, but he just cleared it and went on. “One day, we found this lump on him.” He paused and took a breath. I set my beer back on the ground from where I had been holding it and wound up leaving it there the entire time he told me his story.

“We took him to the vet’s straight away. They said it was good that we caught it early. They were pretty sure it was benign, but of course they tested everything and let us take him back home. They called us back with the results and said they couldn’t find anything, that it was probably a fat tumor. But it kept growing.” He stopped and reached up to rub his eyes. His fingers were stained light green from where he had started picking the grass.

“So we took him in to have surgery, and they removed it, and they said it came out cleanly. It looked good.” He was crying. “They said it looked good.”

He had withered, body bent double with sobs and I didn’t really know what to do with myself, so I started patting his back. He cried louder right after I did that, and I could feel the shudders running through him, but I just kept going. I ran my hand up and down his spine and then I would give a good few pats, repeating until his back began to straighten. When he began talking again, I let my hand drop and I fiddled with the hole in the bottom of my shoe.

“A few months later, we saw that another lump was forming in the same spot. So they operated on him again. And again we waited. And again it came back.” Face awash with tears, voice quivering, he still didn’t stop. “We had already put him through two surgeries. He couldn’t poop by himself. We had to carry him outside. He couldn’t even lift his head up when we called his name and he only just had the energy to flop his tail over once when we did. But it was still right after his surgery. They told me that he may have had an allergic reaction to the anesthetic. I believed—I had to believe that he would get better.

“I had to work away from home for the next week, so I told my parents to keep me updated. They had a vet appointment two days later, on a Tuesday. So I called them on Monday, asking them how he was doing. They said he was doing better, but that we had to seriously consider whatever the vet recommended. I didn’t want to think about it. I called them again right after the appointment the next day, and they were crying and couldn’t say anything and I kept asking them ‘What? What happened?’ over and over until they finally said, ‘He’s gone.’”

Neither of us could carry on for a while after that. My heart hurt for a dog I’d never met. My heart hurt for a person I’d just met today. My heart hurt because I knew I wouldn’t be able to help him finish this Sadness Sundae. My heart hurt because I wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to, either. Not completely, not to every last melted drop. When he was ready to continue at last, his voice was thick and raw.

“I kept imagining him on the table at the vet’s and not—not moving, not anything. And I was so mad at myself for not being there and mad at myself for feeling the tiniest bit of relief for not having to be there because I’m not sure I would’ve made it. I cried only once that week and it was right after the call. I couldn’t hurt more after that. I was functioning only enough to get back. When I got home, it really hit me. I saw his collar lying on the table and I cried so hard it felt like my heart fell out.” He gave a small, disturbingly watery snort. “I’m still crying. It’s been a couple months and I’m still crying just as hard.”

He glanced at me for the first time since he began talking. “Sorry. I don’t have any napkins or I’d give them to you.”

I laughed and swiped my sleeve along my nose. If he thought  _I_  needed them…

“Now that I look back on it, I think the hardest part was that I was scared of him dying for so long. I guess I had started mourning for him a long time before anything had even been determined, and I regret that. I cried a lot over those months, from the very beginning when we found the lump even all the way to now. I don’t want to do that with my other dogs. We’re all focused on paying a lot of attention to them right now. I want to show them a lot of love from now on.”

The two of us just kind of sat there for a moment, waiting for emotions to subside. The streetlights had kicked on a long time ago and the ground had lost its warmth. I shifted from buttcheek to buttcheek trying to work feeling back into my rear. I picked up my beer again, even though it was all nasty and lukewarm and flat. Just something to do.

“My dog used to pee on this tree every time I took him on a walk.”

I choked on my sip of beer, laughing. He turned and looked at me, grinning. It was nice, I’ll admit, seeing him smile without crying, even if his eyes were still very shiny.

“I decided to scatter his ashes here since he enjoyed it so much. That’s what got me so worked up in the first place. I really miss him.”

We both wordlessly leaned back and looked up at the tree, appreciating it. It was still young as far as trees go. I couldn’t tell you what kind of tree it was, but it was a good looking one. Handsome, even. A pretty good pee tree I would say, and not a bad one to be remembered by. I shared the rest of my beer with him while he told me what the rest of his dogs were like.

But after some time passed, we ran out of funny dog stories to tell each other and we ran out of beer. He had to leave early in the morning and I had to stay up late the next day and we both had different places to be. So we got up, shared a laugh at the dirt imprinted on our butts, and recycled our beer cans and then he said “Thank you for listening.” We were looking at each other and we both were on the verge of crying again, I don’t know what about, about the dog, about going our separate ways. About parting. I looked down at my shoes and concentrated really hard on the frayed edges of my shoelaces until I was relatively certain I wouldn’t cry when I looked back up at him. When I did, we both smiled. We hugged. A hard hug, pressed up against him tight enough to remember his bones, at least for a little while. And then we took a step back, waved, and left.

So if you’re reading this: I now have a dog. His name’s Babel. I call him Babs. Sometimes Pig, too, just because it confuses people. He’s pretty badass, I think you’d like him.

I take him on a walk every day in the park. And wouldn’t you know it, he pisses on that goddamn tree every day like his life depends on it.

So if you see someone crying hysterically in front of that tree sometime in the future, remember to bring some beer. Make it four. Then come sit down and we’ll know each other some more.

I’ll be waiting.


End file.
